Wretched Night, Broken Heart
by thiswaybecauseofjacob
Summary: A Night's reflection. Slightly depressing oneshot, after Satine's death and after Christian writes their story.


**I've needed to write something for a while now, but I'm kind of stuck on what to write for my Phantom story, so until I get some ideas, here's a very short, slightly depressing Moulin Rouge one-shot. Please review, I really need it right now, because my life's been pretty hectic lately. **

**Oh, the woes of a thirteen year old's life! ()**

**- - - - -**

A typewriter sat in the corner of the cheap hotel room, abandoned, forlorn, and covered with dust. A piece of parchment was sticking out of it, but no words were written on it. No. .it's owner had long ago forsaken words.

In the opposite corner, a devastated, broken figure sat hunched over a small wooden table.

"I hope you don't mind," Christian whispered to the empty room, his voice weak, a half empty brandy bottle feebly held in his cold hands. His eyes were dark, empty, pained. He squeezed them shut and tightened his hold on the bottle as a new wave of tears threatened to spill.

The antique clock on his mantle tormented his already fragile mind with its incessant ticking, which pierced the oppressive silence like a steel knife sinking through black velvet.

"I hope you don't mind," he whispered again, his voice even weaker than before. The salty tears released themselves, cascading down his pale, clammy cheeks.

He dropped the bottle of brandy to the wooden floor, the sound of shattering glass a deafening and eerie accompaniment to the funereal atmosphere.

Christian foggily looked down at the tabletop, where splashes of amber liquid now swirled around on the cheap particle wood table. He sighed wearily, dipped his finger in the small puddle, and brought it to his lips. It stung his throat, but he hardly noticed in his drunken stupor. He fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, trying to focus on the decaying wood paneling of his cheap hotel room, and not allowing his eyes to drift to the small, clouded window which offered a perfect picturesque view of the one place he now detested above all others: The Moulin Rouge. He grimaced. "Satine," he whispered mournfully. His throat was sore, he noticed. He cleared it, then whispered his beloved's name again, to the dreary silence.

"_Satine, . ."_

He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his tired eyes and his wet cheeks. He softly began to sing to himself: "How wonderful life is. .now you're in-. .now you're in-. .now, . ."

He growled angrily, pulling his face from his hands and rubbing them dry on his pant legs. He stood stiffly, mechanically, kicking his chair over as he went. He walked to the window, unable to shake his desire to see it. .just to bring himself more pain. He grasped the window frame, squeezing it until his knuckles whitened. He pushed his forehead against the dusty pane, savoring the feel of the cool glass against his sweating forehead. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before opening them back up. He choked on another sob as he looked down at Hell on Earth.

There it was. . .The Moulin Rouge. The marquee, large and extravagant, was lit just as brightly as ever, and even from this high up Christian could see the numerous pimps lined up at the door, ready to be admitted, and the few vagrants standing outside the large club, wishing to be one of the many wealthy men indulging their pleasures inside. He looked to the brightly lit windmill, still glowing and as inviting as ever, and could see through the large, clear windows that the party was still taking place, as wild as ever, even at three a.m. in the morning.

Did no one remember her? Was her memory pushed aside that easily? Was the _Sparkling Diamond_ now a dull, unnoticeable pebble in the soil? Had they all forgotten Satine?

He would never forget. His heart would never allow it. Goddamn it, why couldn't he forget!

The tears spilled down his cheeks once again, and he sank to his knees in agony. He wailed like a lost little child, clenching his fists until his digging nails made blood flow down his wrists. He didn't feel it.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn. .is just to _love," _he reminded himself tiredly. "And to be loved. .in return. ." he added sorrowfully.

"Wretched night," he yelled to the empty room. "How you love your morbid existence, your tormenting bleakness!"

He sucked in a shaking breath, trying to calm his forever racing heart. Why couldn't it just bloody stop beating? Then he would feel no more pain. .

He collapsed onto his back, his legs spreading in front of him, and simply laid there. If this was how his life was going to be until he finally received the blessing of death, then so be it. Until Satine was with him again, . .he would endure all obstacles like he had promised he would.

_Come what may. . ._

He would love her, he would always love her, until his dying day. That was one promise he swore to keep, since all others had been shattered the day Satine had been ripped away from him. He would never let her down on this one. He would be her satire player, and she would be his Hindu courtesan, waiting for him with open arms. . .

He softly began to sing to himself as he waited for the cool comfort of sleep to wash over him in its welcoming embrace.

- - - -

**Gotta love Moulin Rouge. ;) Review please, and you'll make my day. Cookies allaround!**


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